Comfest Addendum

Due to obligations at my job and later obligations to my weed ravaged yard – I only attended Comfest on Saturday. But what a Saturday it was (so if you don’t see your band, I didn’t see you). Made my first “twit” to give the coordinates of my blue blanket and as a consequence my company/crew was deep. I was right off the edge of the Off-Ramp tent and could hear those solid sounds drift on the Summer breeze. Not all was kosher, but being at Comfest never puts one in the mood to complain.

Pros:

Karate Coyote -- continue to get better, a nice way to arrive in the scalding sun. Watch Out Young World.

SHIN TOWER MUSIC !!! --were good enough to include three exclamation points.

Ginger Fetus - slow-burning psych warfare.

Hotel Eden - constructs some effervescent pop songs.

Flotation Walls – finally made that record, now tour.

The Lindsay – can’t get too angry about a missing in action follow-up when they sound this good live.

Jordan O’ Jordan – the consummate eccentric and troubadour storyteller.

Envelope – probably had the show of the weekend, but got cut off prematurely. Comfest owes him a huge apology, especially considering how much he’s done for this city.

Fried Fish Foodstuffs.

Columbus Pale Ale.

That the BYOB policy did not seem to apply to reefer or Bulleit Bourbon.

The Solar Stage. Shouldn’t all stages be solar by now?

Cons:

Just about every other band I saw this past weekend either wanted to be the Replacements/Wilco/Social Distortion/Radiohead or some gruesome combination of the four.

And just because you have horns and a keyboard player does not mean you’ve got the E Street Band behind you, so you’re not the Boss and/or the Arcade Fire. (There’s only one band this does not apply to – Nick Tolford and Company, but alas, I did not see them this weekend – plus, he’s more Wilson Pickett).

I felt claustrophobic in Goodale Park for the first time.

If you want me to buy your beer, at least set-up another tent.

Again – have a curated stage. And let Ron House pick every band.

The Burlesque show before Envelope’s set was possibly the worst thing I’ve ever seen at Comfest. And likely the reason his set was abbreviated.

The Lindsay didn’t have a new album for sale.

The Bozo Stage is a joke. Who goes there?

Columbus Discount's Holy Grail

Singles Clubs are a crapshoot. Anyone outside of the Columbus City Limits may have been suspect to simply jump onboard to the Columbus Discount Records great space coaster of a singles club, if only because most of the reported offerings were homegrown – I’d be hesitant to sign onto a label from Omaha’s club without some knowledge of the roster. It’s a good thing that folk have trust in our scene, as it’s surviving and thriving and spreading its influence far from the stretch of road that connects Washington Beach to Rontown. The CDR YR One is almost coming to an end (I’m thinking only Psych Horse and the Slicks have obligations on the way) and there’s rumor swirling YR 2 is even better, at least bigger – it would be hard to top some of the singles this club has pressed for our amusement.

But likely the biggest surprise that has come from the whole subscription is “The Voices of Men” – and lo and behold it doesn’t even bear a CDR label, it bears no label other than a blank white label. It was privately pressed. It was given as a gift. It’s absolutely free if you want it. And it’s likely a piece of the Holy Grail that CDR is just now searching for. The only info one will acquire from the small rectangular insert that comes with “The Voices of Men” is that it was recorded by Nudge Squidfish and Jim Shepard somewhere in the ‘80s. That’s all you get. It’s one-sided, so no reason to flip, instead just soak in the two odd minutes of creepy wonder. Jim Shepard almost turns in a disco number here, with a pulsating synth-beat, a flaying of flanged guitar trails, and the munchkin voices of mischief cajoling behind him. His message, as always, is potent, out to rally the proles against the bourgeoisie, and get them all over to his side.

Listening through a smattering of older V-3 from older times, I’ve noticed the fascination, or perhaps forced parallelization of Shepard and Jim Jones. “The Voices of Men” ends with Jones at the pulpit – not sure if this was the final kool-aid procession. Nothing as harsh or massive, but from a Columbus bunker, Shepard plotted his inevitable (in his eyes) coup of the music industry and the detritus of celebrity and hyperbole that surrounded it. With his art – I distinctly remember the guy claiming Photograph Burns was one of the top five pieces of art in HISTORY, and I often believed him – he was bound to eventually topple the ideals of the ideal model, the penetration of unfiltered, unfettered, thought and pure expression through his words and music. This little unreleased gem may not change the world towards his ends, but it might just be the tip of the iceberg that opens the vaults for everyone to hear. For now, I’m game to get to pressing that Live ’97 Bernie’s bootleg, wherein V-3 literally destroys the dank club. That shit is brutal. Please CDR, next week? Let’s do this.

RIP MJ -- fuck.

It will likely take me a week to fully digest this....

(Read the Agit-Obit)

Who Needs the Comfest....When You Got the Beach

Let’s get one thing straight. The headline of this post is not supposed to be snarky, cause though I’ve butted heads with certain bands in the local scene lately (I’m not touching the Josh Fitzwater and the Shambles disc – we don’t want to go there, ‘nuff said) I am still in love with Comfest – I just don’t think the magic is still in the air, at least if you’re facing the Bozo Stage, and the breeze that comes with it. To contradict – we do need Comfest, if only so all the (insert demeaning expletive) bands that usually draw a crowd of their closest friends (10-20) can play in the sunshine to a handful of strangers. If only so I can have a fishboat. If only so I can sneak into the port-o-johns and load the flask. If only so I can see a million different people I’ve worked with over the years to chit-chat about working together five years ago. I will be there, spread on a blanket, zoned.

But the great thing about Columbus, when it comes to shows of quality, as said here before, when it rains it pours. Last weekend I could’ve lived without Comfest, as it seemed like the city was treated to a rare, stacked, night of locals and touring acts – all within a mile radius. Let’s start with what I saw, and end with what I wished I saw. If you’ve been reading here, you’ll know that Ipps are fast becoming the best of the next generation Beach bands. It may look like an incestuous CDR pile (or Necropolis without the grizzled one and the technician), or a side-project, but forming great groups out of boredom or stasis and finding fruit in that new realization deserves it’s own corner of the scene. Flanked by Necro’s Bisaro and El Jeezy’s O’Shaw on dual-headed drums, Bo and Emily Davis have crafted some serious pop songs. I balked and balled with the syrupy drip of their slower tunes (on that tape) but the first half of this set displayed volume and muscle, velocity and melody. Again “Bluebirds Over the Mountains” was doom, the centrifuge from where these cretins operate when in Ipps mode. Record Record Now Please. No pics as I was frozen – even this early in the evening.



After that I made my way over to the Summit, where there was another show going on. I missed Deathly Fighter’s short set I suppose. Can’t be in two places at once. They were followed by the first out-of-towners of the night, the Guitars, from Cincinnati. From what I was told, they sound like the Monkees. The drummer was sporting a vintage Pete Rose “4192” shirt (Sept. 11, 1985 – Never Forget) so I was already somewhat in love. I didn’t hear the Monkees, but the certainly know their way around a sugary pop song. I was reminded more of the High Strung, or the Cusacks, or a little Cardinal/High Llamas/Starlight Mints thinking-cap oddity from where I stood. There wasn’t much of a crowd, as if those in the back or to the side weren’t sure what to do with a band not utilizing distortion. Maybe Columbus is afraid of semi-orchestral pop?

As for the next band – now nearly legendary upon the “scene” – the Unholy Two seemed to be having an off night. Don’t hear me wrong, I still adore the “Kutter,” but I just wasn’t feeling it. I’m supposing/assuming that all the elements need to be aligned for Lutzko to take the piss properly – 1. Summit is not the stage/soapbox for him. 2. The crowd was sparse (and soberish), the lights weren’t low, and the sound was meh. 3. The Unholy Two can only go on post-midnight for the werewolf to come out. I thought recent clashes in Iran would be enough fodder to fuel the vitriolic banter that usually pours from mouth of our hero. Guess not. No worries. There’s a meth lab a half a block down likely cooking up some late summer death jams. Still, their performance was a slaughter compared to Austin’s Strange Boys. Keep in mind, the SBs are a young, more than adept, twang-n’-slop garage rock band, coiling in the psychedelic derangements of their central Texas forefathers. The only misgiving is they readily admitted – at least on this night – to never hearing the original acid king, Roky Erickson (a guy who is still kicking and kicking quite well). That’s a crime. Especially since this band apes the United Artists catalog like they could whip out a Sir Douglas cover if the times were tough. They aren’t, the Strange Boys profile keeps growing (signing to Domino?) and exactly what they do, revisionist or not, they do quite well. John Michael couldn’t wipe the smile off his face.




I was there for Mika Miko -- a band, along with the Strange Boys, who will be more comprehensively represented on the pages of the Agit-Reader in the coming weeks. These girls talked my fucking ears off (but in the best possible way). I even cut the interview short for brevity’s sake. I would’ve never expected how they operate on stage. Michelle, the hardcore-loving overlord of the group, keeps things afloat – cribbing riffs from Black Flag to Jan und Dean and stashing them into a half-broken po-mo blender of sorts. I couldn’t believe how die-hard they were to execute authenticity. This wasn’t cute. This wasn’t a hardcore approximation. This wasn’t for fuck-god the Donnas or even the Runaways for that matter. This was the real fire-breathing, snot-wielding, blood-letting, deal, and they kept it up for a good 30 minutes straight, never once going up for air, all the while squeaking, wheezing and grunting out pop hooks atop the melee. Go see this band. Much more entertaining in this setting than trying to smash your head to the record. We Be Xuxa is still a stunna’ though.

Signs of my old age bubble up when I’m too whipped to go see the tail end of Saturday’s other monumental show – Psychedelic Horseshit, Circuit des Yeux, Puffy Areolas, and the Yuppies at Carabar – but a risky drive South (the opposite direction of home) and the possibility of not seeing a damn note sent me packing.




Sunday. Father’s Day (refer to Father MC for soundtracking purposes) was spent with Jeff and a Spanish Dog, before shuffling home for the Dirty Projectors show. I had my reservations, seeing them numerous times over the years I was well-aware of the air of pretention that followed the group. Even in March at SXSW I was suspect, as it never seemed as if the group was on the same page. Though it was intriguing and beguiling music, I’ve kept my distance. I was hoping that post-falling-in-love-with-Bitte-Orca would impact the live performance. Weeks on the road, late-night long-hour rehearsals, and the Wex’s glorious sound-system proved me right. Just the vocal acrobatics alone of David Longstreth’s “choir of angels” made the night successful in my eyes. It was a beautiful mess totally rambling and rushing out of control at each turn – bulking up those moments when Longstreth would make his guitar go Yes-crazy and the rest of the group had to struggle to get back in line with his whims. That looked like a feat in of itself. But it held together, loose joints and all. Remaining suspect is his voice. I would really cool it bro, leave it to your ladies. Africa would be proud for once.

To end my weekend, I sauntered over to Summit to catch the Tyvek, who were playing with Pizza Slayer and the Guinea Worms. I rarely miss a Tyvek show, but with the daily grind that was approaching Monday morning, I was exhausted and couldn’t do yet another night of after twelve. Sorry guys (and girl on bass). The cap was my rendition of Bruce Hornsby’s depression-era epic (we’re in one kids) “The Way It Is.” You missed it.

Will You Do 4 Father MC?

Kindo’ wishing we had all this technology back in the spring of 1990 – I’d likely cringe at my outfit from 8th grade (the ubiquitous Malcolm X hat atop a suburban cracker) but would give up my coveted copy of Space Ritual just for a glimpse at what I was carrying around in the Logitech cassette carrier. Even better, to see what I was carrying that in, and what I was playing the collection on. I do know about that time (almost two decades ago!!!) I was bleeding into Danzig/Slayer/Sepultura obsessions and my penchant for hip-hop had been whatever was the most vulgar. Yeah, it was that summer I got busted for possession of G.G. Allin’s Freaks, Faggots, Drunks and Junkies. But for all the contraband I was hording, the metal I was slowly degenerating towards, I was a sucker for New Jack Swing.

At the time it was hard to shake. I could easily post a history of the genre, of which I’ll credit to Teddy Riley (of Guy and Wrecks-n-Effect fame), but you’ll likely know all the major players. In a lot of ways, the fusion of hip-hop with trad-soul, quiet storm come-ons, gospel, and pre-blipster street sense was the result of New Edition’s break-up and growing-up – look at all the splinters that came from that: Bobby started it with Don’t Be Cruel, but Bell Biv Devoe followed up shortly with Poison, and even Johnny Gill and Ralph Tresvant got in on the fun with “Rub You the Right Way” and “Sensitivity” respectively. New Edition though is already in the Bo Jackson HOF – likewise with Teddy Riley. So here we make the case for Timothy Brown (aka Father MC).

Be forewarned. I’ve recently tried, without much luck, to listen to his debut Father’s Day in its completion. I’m surprised I choked it down way back then. Truth be told, most albums of this genre – fuck -- most hip-hop albums from the era were littered with filler – and besides the obvious two hits – Father’s Day is no exception, which is somewhat a shame because despite the bad rap the era’s lovermen received from their harder counter-contingent (Big Daddy Kane, Heavy D, Candyman), Father MC was skilled – and responsible for launching the careers of Mary J. Blige and Diddy (can’t vouch for the later though). To this day I still jam a ton of NJS and continue to pursue some of the lesser known. A recent summer mix finds Troop butting up against Hi-Five. The highlight of said mix are the two songs by the Father, namely “Treat ‘Em Like They Want to Be Treated” and “I’ll Do 4 U” (a Prince rip if ever, at least in title). While I prefer the gentlemen approach and soulful refrain of “Treat ‘Em,” by sampling the disco hit “Feel So Real,” it would’ve been impossible for “I’ll Do 4 U” not to be a hit on its own, especially with lines like “Introduce me to your mother and I’ll say hello Maim.” Not exactly sure how much Christianity was jostled around in the background, but the Father does get preachy, and seems a little too nice to be a hip-hop celeb, perhaps why a good portion of the album is wholesome choir practice. For a brief moment in time, he had his spotlight, but like his New Jack Swing practitioners, the tune changed rapidly and soon sophisticated safe rap became an endangered species.

Agit-Weekend in Pictures

Right Now Weird Tapes Rule the Summer

Here comes yet another relatively mysterious and anonymous (one-man?) mixmaster who is eternally indebted to the many frivolities of youth in the 1980s. Weird Tape’s sprightly boogaloo remix of the Yeah Yeah Yeah’s “Heads Will Roll” is the one that got my attention – before that I’d never heard of this guy behind the curtain. We do know he’s from the Philly/Jersey side of the tracks.

Linked is his We’re Tapes blog, wherein various remix and originals pop-up among you-tube finds and various exotica. Most of it is tits. If you’re looking for one complete work I highly suggest the two EPs he has for free download here. While I do see similarities to Futurecop, Vega, and the Twelves, I’m also hearing a bit of Girl Talk (he’s using some good samples here) but on an entirely different level – in all there’s a dark side among the synthetic baubles and roller-bounce neon, and if you listen closely you’ll recognize the snippets, sped and chopped, mending into wild climaxes of fluorescent melodies.

To top that off – he’s also the solo Memory Cassette. I suppose this would be his rock project, veering close to the heart of that new romantic, post-pop sound. But going even further, it’s the combination of the two – Memory Tapes – that holds the most intrigue. Go and make sure to listen to “Bicycle” to see what I mean. And considering Memory Tapes have a full-length on the way, it feels he’s funneling all of his effort into this.

Happy International Day of Slayer

June 6th is a holiday I can get behind. I've never really been disappointed by this band, in any capacity (even God Hates Us All had it's moments). Seeing as it's going to be scorching in Ohio today, I can't see myself making it any more hellish by holing up in the basement with South of Heaven. But I do need a fix. I'm thinking Decade of Agression will do. Two discs of greatest hits live. They're touring again this summer -- with a Columbus date. I can vouch for them on stage. Gods.

Summer Jamz '09 - Poolside Bounce

It's that time of year again. Time when all of us former Stylus writers get super-geeky and assemble our Summer Jamz mixtapes. I was lucky enough to be coupled with John Cunningham, who, like me, shares a warm fuzzy love for '80s synth-pop. I think our back and forth meshed well. He suggested some Lisa Lisa for the stew -- so I knew we were one in the same. But alas, no Lisa (you can always add your own "I Wonder if I Take You Home" for good measure) though I think we still kinda killed it.

You can find our Poolside Bounce mix here. Jeff Weiss has been kind enough to host all of our various Summer Jamz on his always excellent Passion of the Weiss site. Believe it.

Ganglians - "To June"

Last Friday I did an interview with Sacramento's Ganglians, where I basically gush about their latest album, Monster Head Room. While not to discredit their debut on Woodsist, Monster Head Room just sounds like a quantum leap forward for this band -- there's a magically creepy and joyous tribal pop vibe going on here. I highly suggest you buy this vinyl before they're all gone. They're almost all gone. While you're at it, convince them to come to Columbus to play on their upcoming, late-summer, East Coast jaunt. I'm more than curious to see how this adventure hippie troupe unfolds in front of me. Above is the video for the Monster Head Room track "To June"

Pavement Revisionist History

Live. 1997. Koln, Germany. Never hated the song “Kennel District,” but the Preston School of Industry has always been the butt of many extremely nerdy indie-rock inside jokes, right? The specter of Pavement as an incredible live band also lingers as a punchline. I’ve got a few pieces of evidence to go on – the Crooked Rain era, still in a small venue, with GBV as an opener…or….the Lollapalooza (you’re gonna have to play “Cut Your Hair” and why not?) baking in the sun version of the band…or ….the “definitely the last tour” Pavement would ever do Pavement (wherein Mr. Stephen Malkmus goes off). It should be understood that whichever era that you saw, Pavement were quite an amazing spectacle to behold in any format (if only for the consistent demeanor and guitar prowess of Malk). This recently record-store-day vinyl-only release proves that.

Basic evidence of this can be found in the manic solo on “Fin,” which here sounds like Malk’s grand finale, for the band and for the Pavement trademark. In listening it almost seems like Malk was Cobain with a good head on his shoulders, having the foresight to know that things were crumbling, but instead of sulking into horse and public misery, started building his solo endeavors within the Pavement architecture. A song like “Blue Hawaiian” with its chilled séance intro and its wave-bending chorus imagines the path Malkmus would take, especially since the Steely Dan quality of the mood is momentously interrupted with another Malk solo kind of crying its way out until the very end. This live album shows the depth that the band was working with even towards the twilight – “The Hexx” and “Transport is Arranged” were hefty staples included to show a “maturity” post-Wowee. And even if Malk was fed up, he allows Spiral Stairs to have his day as there’s “Date w/ IKEA,” not one of my favorites, and a raucous version of the aforementioned “Kennel District.”

Not sure where I'm going here....but going beyond just the itchy anticipation of seeing Pavement again, reunited, reconciled, I’m just as interested to see what they’d play and how they’d play it, and if they still have the chops they once had. Plus S.S. prolly needs a summer job.

Veckatimest Vinyl Confirms It...

Even though I was extremely underwhelmed by Yellow House, thinking that album was a total bore for a band existentially linked with Animal Collective, I had the heart enough to give Veckatimest a fighting chance, what with it being at our fingertips months before the “actual” physical release. Listening to it on the plane to Austin I found myself in and out of conciousness – there were points that pricked my ears, gentle calming orc-pop, but overall I was yawning, head drooping for the duration. Still, the internets persisted, screaming in my face that this was the record that would change all of our minds about Grizzly Bear if they weren’t convinced already. I skipped their blogger infested patio show at SXSW, cause at the time I’d rather be awake and alert – but now I’m kicking myself for this err. As the release date approached I was inundated with videos, live takes, and higher and higher quality rips from VKTMST, and slowly and slowly starting to drink the kool-aid. Then the vinyl came out (finally) and I was hooked. This is one of those infamous records that expands and contracts in its own grooves, its own reverb and atmosphere. Listen to it loud on the turntable, start to hear the miniscule arrangements hiding in the background – the luxurious ebb and flow of a band coming into their own chamber, opera house, stadium. This is one of those records that can only be heard on vinyl, some East Coast Boarding School Dark Side of the Moon made by band geeks and literary magazine editors. 2009 is starting to remind me of 1999, a year when a lot of (now) classics emerged. Rank and file.

Ipps (Tape)

IPPS.Uggah. There’s therapy in “Yr Thick,” a Sunday afternoon reggae attempt where all the liquor bottles are broken on the floor already and no one seems to give a damn. The Davis couple (2/5 of Necropolis) held a BBQ and subverted the entire Columbus discography in the CDR vaults-party room with pukey sunshine and more broken liquor bottles, maybe some downers. This doesn’t sound like a suicide of last sips mind you -- it’s kind of a new beginning. The other vowel-less song here “Wr Dead,” will submit you to a very familiar narcotic slumber, drones and all. Who’s for sure if this is a knee-jerk to the Necropolis stasis or simply a way to kill the boredom? I’m not calling a Necropolis stasis here, they kind of started it all (i.e. CDR) and their underground game-plan (for that scorching Hackled Ruff follow-up) is respected with the utmost secrecy and discern. So if you love Necropolis you’ll not be surprised that Ipps frequently run off the rails, though most of the time in slow-motion. Especially In the case of “Bluebirds Over the Mountain” a slurred blues last-call.

There’s nothing to prove in the extended nyquil jam of “Go Away,” that’s the charm (or sedative) of Ipps – to drown out “that other noise.” This is a “home” project, maybe cooked in the kitchen for all I know, maybe seriously getting some steam for all I know. For all I know, I have yet to see this live, and for that please forgive my sin (old age?). There is a spiritual connection with Ipps as I listen to the “tape” on the same “pioneer” I would have listened to them on be it 1995-99. We need more tapes.

Looks like they're playing June 20th at the Summit on an excellent bill -- both the Strange Boys and Mika Miko will be playing.

Three Times Dope too Ackinickulous?

In retrospect I’m not entirely sure why Philadelphia’s Three Times Dope never excelled into the upper echelon during their coming-up in hip-hop’s golden age. Their debut, Original Stylin’, remains a lost classic (demanding an easy $50 on eBay), which is the reason for the ink here – but going deeper I have to question why they stalled after that. Were they too clean (nary a cuss-word in sight)? Too clever (leader EST was known for his imagined Philly neighborhood slang and commanding wordplay)? Too romantic (lots of their themes revolve around EST as the king lover, but that was a position firmly held by Big Daddy Kane at the time)? Too concept-heavy (their convoluted sophomore follow-up made them appear as X-Clan rookies)? The verdict is really still out. Though EST (aka Robert Walker) has made living penning pop schlock, it’s the invention of terms like “ackinickulous” and “the giddy up,” that have kept him afloat in my nostalgia. I was pretty excited in my research to find EST had just recently given an interview regarding Philly’s original hip-hop scene, in which he defines “ackinickulous” as “the utopian state of being nice.”

For a short while there, at the height of Yo MTV Raps, Original Stylin’ was the “utopian state of being nice” in the rap game. Though EST would boast he was the “Greatest Man Alive” (complete with perfectly clipped Muddy Waters sample) it was more a tongue-in-cheek stunt. Songs like the dancehall-inspired title track and “The Giddy Up” possessed a fluid old-school progression that still sounds fierce to this day, even if you can perceive the trio was searching for more than gold chains and bragging rights. Perhaps they never caught on due to their somewhat naïve vulnerability. Take “Funky Dividends” for example – the group’s biggest hit and a top-ten favorite of mine – wherein EST gives a convincing argument that his girl is taking him for his paper, but by songs end fails to really do anything about (except let her know “this ain’t working”). More or less he was a gentleman, but also a pushover, something that didn’t mesh with his street-savvy rhyme-style. You be the judge. Despite the theories about their demise – I’m just going to flow with the fact that Live from Ackinickulous Land was minus the same highlights of their debut – what shouldn’t be judged is the lasting effect of (at least) the two lead singles on Original Stylin’. It’s definitely worth the search. And if you find (or have) a copy for cheap, please don’t hesitate to contact me.

The Beets vs. The Beets

Of the moment, my favorite export from NYC is the naive pop of the Beets. Even more so after the brief interview I conducted with them on AGIT-READER last week. Finding out they were from Uruguay was a bit of trivia that adds another layer of love, seeing as that country is where I eventually found love and life-livin' skills.

Even better is the fact the Beets had never heard of the Beets. Above the "new" Beets. Below the "original" Beets. Preferences?

Poolside with Arkarna

Poolside is soon to become a reality as Summer is right around the corner, so I thought it necessary to pull out the go-to poolside pop in my arsenal. In 1996 I stubmled upon Arkarna waking up late night to the International video channel that I don't think exists anymore. Arkarna never became the worldwide success their producers/handlers thought they might become -- a techno-infused version of Hanson for tweens? You can likely find this in any $3 bin the globe over. It's worth it for the pop essence of the chorus to "So Little Time." I've long annoyed anyone who's ridden shotgun with me in seasonal sun, as for some reason this song hits a nerve every time. Perfection. I've also long threatened to cover this once my long-gestating solo career takes off. For now, enjoy. Try your best to put images of Mary Kate and Ashley aside (they covered this for a series theme song) and take pleasure in this at face value.

The Mysterious Sperm of Finnland

Last week in the AGIT-READER I wrote a glowing review of the latest re-ish from De Stijl, Hannover, Germany's 39 Clocks, but that label gets even deeper and daker with the vinyl only release of Sperm's Shh! Now this is a strange one, and certainly the few that drop $20 will likely know what they're getting into with this album. If you're buying it blindly be advised, this is not easy listening, or some lost psych wonder, but it is a spindly root of musique-concrete, scalpled jazz, and primitive plunderphonics -- falling squarely between Cage, Stockhausen, and the Los Angeles Free Music Society.

Shh! was recorded by a trio of Finns from Helsinkin -- Pekka Airaksinen, Jan Olof Mallander, and (more of a spiritual adviser than participant) Mattijuhani Kaponen. I'm still in research mode as to if this record was the impetus for the wild Finnish noise underground, or just an integral part of it -- those long oop comps are hard to come by, even through file-sharing. Shh! is for the most part, considering this was 1970, avant-collage. There is some decomposition of In a Silent Way's minmalism, but all bets are off on the close of the first side, where air raid siren, fog harbor traffic, and Boschian dementia takes hold. The second sides jazzier leaning is apparent, but this falls closeset to something like Sun Ra rather than Miles, still though, it's pretty far towards left-field, as strings pluck in space and long-meditations on skonk unfold slowly. I've always wondered where the Fonal camp got their mojo -- scavegering in the dense forests of Finnland, tapping into wells of mystic psych blueprints -- somewhere along the voyage they found Sperm (and that gave them life?) Who knows?

Tough Luck at GABP...Soon to Clear Up

This is a post about my first trip down to Great American Ball Park this season – our annual Mother’s Day excursion – to see last Sunday’s titanic struggle with the 1st place Cardinals, but as I type the Cincinnati Reds are currently in a three-way tie for the top spot and gaining momentum with every series (they just swept the lousy Diamondbacks if you aren’t following along). Forever the Red’s optimist, I’d have to say this “winning” should probably stick if we keep the right guys on the field. And talking about an epic loss seems trivial now……

Still, Sunday’s 10 inning, 4 hour, 8-7 loss was some of the most complete baseball I’ve ever had the pleasure to witness. Dusty Baker and Tony LaRussa were locked in a human chess match the entire game – pulling double-switches and surprise moves throughout, never giving into the other’s advantages. So they say the Reds can’t hit, this weekend has silenced the naysayers to a degree. The team hit five HRs in this game alone. And one came off the bat of pitcher Micah Owings, in the bottom of the 9th, with a 3-2 count, to tie it all up. I could play armchair manager and bitch about Jerry Hairston Jr.’s inability to lay down a routine bunt or Dusty’s decision to put in Danny Herrera and Chris Dickerson even when the team was still hot, but I won’t (or I just did). Oh well. It’s over.

They lost, and I left the ballpark happy and satisfied. For one, this showed that this Reds team can battle with the best, blow for blow. No sweep, but winning the series against your divisional nemesis (and only giving Puhols one HR) is none two shabby. This is a hungry team and despite my wishes for some kind of trade-up/shake-up, messing with the chemistry might throw things off course.

In addition, I’m pleased to announce I’ve turned my Brazilian sister-in-law into a Reds fanatic. We enjoyed the game from the best seats in GABP in which I’ve sat. The new Elliott section is 135, right in line with the opposing team’s bullpen path and within earshot of any shmuck who gets the pleasure of hearing my drunken taunts. The park continues to get more fan-friendly every year, though that scoreboard needs some zen auditing (much too crowded).

And….continuing to be my favorite Red, despite a slow start…..


Brandon Phillips signed autographs from about the end of BP to the exact start of the game. Stand-up guy.

Shitgaze Anthems as Advertised

Here's what Woodsist says about Shitgaze Anthems, it's almost as hilarious as that Washington Post interview:

"After about a 2 year absence, Psychedelic Horseshit is back with an EP of alleged B-sides from an upcoming full length..."I only listen to OK Computer and Cranes. The Fall sucks, DIY sucks, we suck, you suck." said Matt Horseshit in a recent interview."Why should anyone listen to you then?" replied the reporter."Because we're FUN, duh." And even though you wanna hate 'em, you gotta admit, they kinda are fun. Matt is a dick, of course, and Rich is hilariously clueless mostly, and by all means most of the stuff on this SHITGAZE ANTHEMS EP should'nt work, whether it be the white-boy dub section, the cliche acoustic ballad with backwards guitar, the blatant Dylan rips, or the overall amateur playing, but for some reason these elements that usually reek of pretention and failure actually endear you to the band and their songs. Yes, they're called Psychedelic Horseshit. Yes, they do suck, but I'll be damned if they aren't one of my favorite bands in the world, and they're only getting better, but if I tried to tell you why it'd only make 'em sound worse. So it goes..."

I beginning to believe, with each sucessive record that Matt Horseshit will make both his MBV rip-off LP and his, proposed,threatened, trip-hop project. We should all start believing. Shitgaze Anthems takes him one-step closer -- while the songs are structurally the same, the sonics around them and the lyrics that continue to baffle me are what gives the reason for worship. Just in the first minute of "We're Pink Floyd, Bitch," there are sensations of solar warmth and crystals shattering surrounding the cruddy-art-punk PHS whip up quick. If you've caught a recent live show, you'll no doubt find "Dreadlock Paranoia" familiar as it usually ends the set in a 10 minute plus dub jam -- well here it's sits permanently, and perfectly, just as disorienting.

Matt Horseshit has turned into a kind of Stoner Frankenstein, with eight arms to hold every subculture that finds solace in herb and psych -- the collector scum, the rastafari, the fuck-off folkie, the neon club-kid, the shoegazers, the shitgazers. Not much metal, but you can't win them all. Oh, and "Are You On Glass?" is the hit. If these are b-sides, I'm looking forward to the kush.

I exhausted trying to come up with more words as to why I love this band. Be prepared.

Bonus: -- my favorite line from the record -- "Pontificating trivialities and wasted steam/Should be getting off the internet and into the streets."

Wisdom?

Report on Reports

The latest offering from Cambridge, Mass’ Reports is one of the more intriguing surprises I’ve found in the mailbox this past week – and by surprise I mean this came without warning, from the band, as a gift -- not the surprise of finally finding those records I pre-ordered over a month ago. If you read here you’ll know Reports first LP, Mosquito Nets was one of those under-the-radar releases that didn’t get passed around too many circles, but it still shone with a pop bent that couldn’t be denied. I said it was crammed with “scruffy tuneful moments” and I meant it. That record’s still sitting on the “play” shelf, even though I was getting anxious to see how they would evolve.

Their latest 7” on Ride the Snake gives us some clues. “Bill Wyman, Metal Detector,” reiterates the fact that Reports are currently my favorite (unashamed/unabashed) disciples of Guided By Voices (sorry High Strung), and you can really hear it in the ascending vocal melodies. The music on the other hand, is more like an agitated GBV (or Arlo, for those in the know), influenced by a slanted form of punk Pollard would rarely touch. I enjoy the fusion, as there seems to be both slop and tightly wound dynamics to what they do as a band. The b-side, “Attleboro Trails,” mines a similar bop but its groundwork is purely – what’s the word here? – choogling in the way Zen Guerilla or Delta 72 would work a white-funk groove, except sterilized and dripping in echo. It’s not what you think. They actually don’t play out of character -- it’s simply a nice diversion to their already increasing profile in shitpop centers.

But I need the whole quest guys. I need to hear what this would sound like stretched over a full slab. There’s got to be some label out there hearing this. Reports deserve a shot and a wider forum from which to yell. Grab it.